


Middle Management

by VivWiley



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Author apologizes to the Smiths, CSM song fic, Gen, Really should pretty much apologize to everyone., crack soooo much crack, no really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-09 04:16:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/769877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VivWiley/pseuds/VivWiley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>CSM song fic.  I have no explanation.  Well, I have a little explanation: it's all Mustang Sally's fault. Blame her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Middle Management

Middle management is the last refuge of the truly incompetent and the merely desperately inane. I am neither. I am someone with no where else to go. Despised and feared by those below me, and held in my place by blackmail and extortion by those "above" me, I spend my days a bureaucratic functionary. I am forever caught between the cogs of two powerful machines -- the U.S. government and the Consortium, which, because it was designed by those bloody Germans, is even more bureaucratic than the U.S. Feds.

Driving home, I was ensnared, again, in the gridlocked parking lot laughingly referred to as "the Beltway." Yes, I do have a home. Contrary to Mr. Skinner's opinion, I do not simply vanish in a puff of brimstone and smoke to the depths of hell every night. I only do that for special meetings and weekends.

It's a joke.

Unable to call in the surgical airstrike that would remove the cause of this incessant traffic... Let me amend . While able to call in such an airstrike, I decided that the paperwork was just not worth the hassle. Consortium Form 34-77 "Explanation of Improper Authorization of Tactical Weapons" takes at least 4 hours to complete properly and then those fucking trolls in Accounting always want to quibble with you about the estimated value of loss of life...anyway, the point is that I decided to wait it out and pretend for once that I was just an ordinary person.

Rifling through the glove compartment of the carpool car, I came across a stash of cassettes, and decided to play one while waiting for the State Police to finish clearing the wreck on the American Legion Bridge. The Smiths sounded like an appropriately generic band for a man like me, who o longer has a name. I didn't realize that a single song would nearly change my life.

The first song barely registered, but the opening chords of the second song bounced on my eardrums like the sound of destiny knocking.

_Frankly, Mr. Shankley, this position I hold_   
_It pays my way, but it corrodes my soul_   
_I want to leave, you will not miss me_   
_I want to go down in musical history_

My god - the singer was speaking straight to my heart. Yes, I have one of those, too. Taking a deep drag from my ubiquitous cigarette, I reflected on how thoroughly I'd allowed the Consortium and my "superior" to corrode me over the years.

_Frankly, Mr. Shankley, I'm a sickening wreck_   
_I've got the 21st Century breathing down my neck_   
_I must move fast, you understand me_   
_I want to go down in celluloid history_

The 21st century was indeed breathing down my neck. I've done more than my share to shape the events of the 20th century, and now I am beginning to realize that I will not be remembered; in fact no one will ever know that *anyone* even shaped those events. They will be considered "accidents," or "acts of God." I was suddenly seized by the magnitude of the unfairness that Sylvester Stallone, a miserable actor with a congenital inability to clearly articulate spoken English, will be remembered, and I will not. I made a mental note to ensure that his next movie failed miserably.

_Fame. Fame, fatal Fame._   
_It can pay hideous tricks on the brain_   
_But still I'd rather be Famous_   
_Than righteous or holy, any day, any day, any day_

The idea of being righteous or holy had never really appealed to me anyway, but Fame is more troublesome. It has become increasingly clear to me that my writing will never receive the recognition it deserved. I'd even attempted to write some "fanfic" on the Internet for a trendy, but ultimately insignificant television show, only to be roundly ignored there as well. Despite the powers I possessed, it would appear there are limits.

_But sometimes I feel more fulfilled_   
_Making Christmas cards with the mentally ill_   
_I want to Live and I want to Love_   
_I want to catch something that I might be ashamed of_

I had already done at least that much. That tart Marita still has a great deal of explaining to do, but fortunately the Consortium doctors are efficient and discrete.

_Frankly, Mr. Shankley, the position I hold_   
_It pays my way, but it corrodes my soul_   
_Oh, I didn't realize that you wrote poetry_   
_I didn't realize you wrote such bloody awful poetry_

The next day, confronting that effete British snob, whose hands are always so *immaculately* groomed, the Smiths' words still rang in my ears. As I was informing him of my  
decision to seek other avenues of employment, he only looked at me with that coldly superior air he affects, and said that it simply would not do. He said he'd long ago arranged it so that none of my work would ever be accepted by even the most obscure pulp publishing presses and that Hollywood script writing was a mere pipe dream. I am condemned to middle management forever, it seems.

_Frankly, Mr. Shankley, since you ask_   
_You are a flatulent pain in the ass_   
_I do not mean to be so rude_   
_But still, I must speak frankly, Mr. Shankley_

I'd lost the gambit -- you do not resign from the Consortium. I'd ventured to hell, lured there by the siren song of disaffected Euro-trash youth, and paid the price. I left the offices and went off to torment Skinner. Middle management does have some consolations.

END

**Author's Note:**

>  _Backstory_ : Many years ago, on a distant planet, okay, it was New Jersey, four fic writers spent the weekend at the beach, laughing too much, snarking just enough and just generally enjoying the heck out of sun, sand and mini-golf. Along the way, the ever-dangerous MustangSally assigned each of homework. Our first "assignment" was that each of us had to write a songfic. So I did...(have _you_ ever tried to tell Mustang Sally "no?")
> 
> _Disclaimers:_ The characters and situations of the X-Files are the property of 1013 Productions and Fox Broadcasting. The lyrics of the song "Frankly, Mr. Shankley" belong to Morrissey. I apologize profoundly to each.
> 
> My thanks to M for editing and encouragement, and to B for inspiring this bit of madness. Initials only are used to protect the innocent and the guilty.
> 
> Okay - I confess, my original assignment was to write a Skinner Song Fic. I couldn't do it. I bargained myself down to this.


End file.
